


Not Again

by GlassRose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassRose/pseuds/GlassRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean, ages 13 and 17, are spending a quiet evening in when Sam finds out an unpleasant truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Again

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for mentions of physical abuse against a minor.  
> I do not own any Supernatural storylines or characters.  
> Tiny spoiler for 5x16: Dark Side of the Moon. But like so tiny you could miss it even if you watched the episode.
> 
> As the author of the story I do not want this posted anywhere else without my explicit permission.

John was out. Routine haunting to take care of. Dean hadn't offered to go with, and John hadn't asked. Sam was trying to keep up with schoolwork. Not that he had any sort of linear education, but if a teacher assigned an essay, he might as well write one. It couldn't hurt. Dean was sprawled on the other bed, reading, of all things. Sam knew better than to ask what the book was. Dean would get defensive, put it down, hide it, and go clean a shotgun. Sam had no interest in being responsible for interrupting Dean's rare attempt to be culturally literate.

Around seven, when Sam had finished marking up his first draft, Dean stood up and stretched, wincing slightly. "I'm gonna get Chinese," he said. "What do you want?"

"Same old," Sam answered. "And won-ton soup. Thanks. You want me to come with?"

"Nah, you finish your thing. It's just a couple blocks away." Dean dropped the book into the nightstand and shut the drawer.

Sam watched him go, waiting until his brother had passed out of sight of the windows before he made his way to the end table to see what Dean was reading. Huh. Kurt Vonnegut. Well. Fair enough. Sam left the book exactly as it was and returned to his essay. His hand hurt. Teachers always told him he held pencils incorrectly, but the way they tried to make him do it felt so damn awkward. What he wouldn't give for a laptop computer, but those were way too expensive, even with the credit card scams. Maybe someday when they were easier to manufacture, he'd be able to set aside some money for one. It was, admittedly, a bit much for a thirteen-year-old to ask for a laptop.

"I need a break," he announced to the empty room, setting down the pencil and lying back on the bed.

Suddenly the door creaked open and Sam sat upright, relaxing as he realized he'd simply fallen asleep, and Dean was already back with dinner. Dean spread the food out on the desk, careful to move Sam's essay first, and gestured to the spread. Sam couldn't help noticing the slight twitch in his brother's face when he extended his arm, like he was trying to hide physical pain.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"What?"

"You're wincing. Or pretending not to. Are you hurt?"

"No."

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Dean shoved a carton toward him.

"Eat."

Discussion closed. Sam sighed and opened the box of chicken. "So, why didn't you go with Dad?" he asked around a mouthful of food.

"He didn't ask," Dean answered easily, mixing up rice and fried pork.

"Like that would stop you. It's just a ghost."

"And Dad can handle it."

"Okay."

They finished the food in silence, and Sam put the rest in the fridge. Dean was reading again, and Sam started writing a second draft, which he optimistically considered his final. After about half an hour, Dean dropped his book and said, "Okay, I'm crashing. Good luck with the essay." He pulled off his shirt and threw it in the corner.

Sam glanced up—and stopped. "What is that?" he demanded.

Dean didn't meet his eye. "Ghost threw me around."

"The last ghost?"

"Yeah."

"The one you salted and burned while Dad held it off? The one that didn't touch you at all?"

"Drop it, Sam."

"That bruise is newer than that ghost, anyway. Where did you get it?"

"Lives we live, and you're freaking over a little bruise?"

"It's not little, it's nasty, and what happened?"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Did Dad do that?"

"Come on, Sam," Dean snapped.

"Oh my god."

"Just forget it."

"He _hit_ you."

"He was drunk."

"So?"

"Dean." Sam stood up and grabbed Dean's wrists, looking up at him. "Should I call Social—"

"Don't you fucking dare," Dean growled, twisting out of Sam's grip. "Don't you _ever_ say that. They'll separate us, Sam, you hear me? They'll take us away from Dad, and they'll take you away from me."

"Okay, okay. Has he done this before?"

"No."

Dean was a good liar, but Sam knew his tics too well. "Oh my god, he has. You can't just take this, Dean."

"What do you want, Sam? He was drunk, he was pissed, he didn't mean it, I'm fine, so fucking drop it."

"Dean—"

"I said _drop it_." Dean looked so angry that Sam actually obeyed. He kicked off his shoes and crawled under the covers, facing away from Sam.

 

John got back around midnight to find his younger son standing in front of the motel, arms crossed.

"You should be in bed, Sam," he said tiredly.

"I know what you did to Dean," Sam said coldly.

John didn't meet his eyes, instead just saying heavily, "Go to bed."

"Not again. Not ever again."

"Sam—"

"No. Don't you _ever_ hit my brother again. I don't care if you're drunk. Promise me."

"I didn't—"

"Promise me!"

John did look him in the eye now. Sam was furious, and John was slightly nervous now, now that he was beginning to understand what his younger son might be capable of. "All right, son," he said quietly. "I was wrong. It won't happen again. I promise."

Sam nodded coldly, and then he turned on his heel, wrenched the door open, and got into bed next to Dean, staying on the side closest to John's bed. Dean was sleeping, but Sam put a hand on his shoulder.

_Not again. Not ever again._


End file.
